


Hush Little Baby

by StarsGarters



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt, Past Relationship(s), Past Sexual Abuse, Past Torture, Psychological Trauma, Road Trip, Scarification, Temporary Amnesia, brock was a bag of dicks, jorts, redeemed rumlow?, what is a happy ending anyway?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 18:11:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 16,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11340690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsGarters/pseuds/StarsGarters
Summary: It was a short fill for an AU prompt : Waking up with Amnesia, but I can't stop typing.





	1. Chapter 1

The mission had gone horribly wrong. Missed rendezvous points. Bad intel. The bomb they drove over had been the cherry on the shit-show sundae. The two agents in the back of the transport never had a chance.

The Asset dragged the unconscious body of his handler into the relative safety of an abandoned building. His handler, the Commander, was bleeding heavily from a shallow slice in his scalp. Blood dripped down and pooled in his deep set orbital cavity. The Soldier ripped open a med kit and did his best to clean and staunch the wound. He sat back against a wall and rested, waiting for evac.

It had been several hours. The Asset tested his radio and the batteries fell out in his hand. A bullet hole in the casing. There would be an extraction team regardless. They both had transmitters embedded in their bodies. And STRIKE needed the Commander. He wasn't just a weapon like the Asset. The Commander was valuable.

The Asset watched the Commander sleep until his eyelids fluttered open. The Asset didn't say anything, he observed his handler push himself up. He gingerly touched the dressed wound upon his head and winced. His vision slowly focused and he flinched back at the sight of the Asset.

The commander's eyes were wide with fear. He scrambled in a backwards crawl away from the Asset until he hit the opposite wall. The Asset didn't understand. He was dressed in tactical gear, eyes smeared dark with blacking and laden with weapons, just like the Commander was. "Who are you?" the Commander sputtered and then grabbed his head. "Who am I?"

Easy questions for the Asset to answer. "You are the Commander. I am the Asset." He pulled out a canteen from his rucksack, took a swig and then capped it. "Drink." He tossed the canteen at the Commander's feet. The handler look at it suspiciously.

"That's not sanitary." But he picked it up and took a sip regardless. "What am I the commander of?"

"The Asset." He tapped on his broad armored chest.

"Like that means anything to me. God my head hurts." The handler winced. "Did I hit my head?"

"On the windshield of the transport after we hit an IED."

"A what?" The Commander took another sip. "A bomb?"

"Yes. You do not remember the mission parameters?"

"I don't even remember my own name! I'm on a mission? With what looks like personification of Death?"  The Commander sighed. "I'm sure you are a perfectly lovely person, but I'm so confused."

No one had ever told the Asset what kind of person he was before, not even the Commander. He pressed for more information out of curiosity. "Why do you say I am a perfectly lovely person?"

"Well I don't want you to hurt me. You look like you could break me in half using just your thumbs.  But you must have bandaged me up and watched over me, so you have to be a decent sort of person. It's only logical."

"I am--" The Soldier paused, "A decent sort of person?"

"Sure. Sure. Do you know what my name is?"

"Commander." The Asset thought for a moment. "I have heard the name Brock Rumlow yelled at you in the past."

The Commander made a face. "Well I guess my parents hated me to give me that name. It sounds like a television news anchor or a pornstar." He took another drink. "What's your name, kid?"

"The Asset." It was the only name he knew. The only name he answered to. "I have had things yelled at myself in the past as well, but they did not seem to be a proper name." The Commander began to laugh at that statement. "It was not a joke."

"I bet you've never made a joke in your life." His hooded eyes were heavy.

"Jokes are not a part of my mission parameters."

His handler laughed again, "Now _that_ was a joke. I'm honored to have been your first audience. You’re too pretty to be so serious all the time—“  The Commander slumped against the wall and the Asset sprang to his aid. He held the Commander in his arms and had the oddest feeling of _deja vu_. The man in his arms was suddenly smaller, frail and burning up with fever.

"Shh." The Asset said, "Shh. Don't be making such a fuss punk, you'll upset your Ma." The Commander didn't hear him, his limbs slack in the Asset's arms. His breathing was shallow.  " _Hush little baby don't say a word. Momma's gonna buy you a mockingbird..._ " The words tumbled out, a fractured melody and he rocked the Commander's body back and forth, back and forth...

When the evac team found them, the Asset was still holding tight to his handler. Tears had streaked his eyeblack.

"At ease, soldier!" One of the evac team tried to pry his fingers from the Commander's arms and the Asset snapped his teeth, like a wild animal.

"I do not have time for this shit." The tall one, the one the Commander liked best, jammed an auto-injecting syringe of tranquilizers into the side of the Asset's neck. "Get the Commander to sick bay and get that thing back for a wipe." Foam gurgled from the Asset's lips as the tall one leaned over and took the Commander from his desperate, clutching grasp. “He’s remembering things again."


	2. Chapter 2

Rumlow was in a hospital bed. He knew that because of the iv drip in his hand and the muffled beep of monitors. If they wanted him healthy, then perhaps they were the good guys. No one gave a shit about how prisoners felt. 

He almost cracked his eyes open when he heard footsteps beside his bed. Two men. One had the prissy, put upon tones of a doctor, the other— the other’s voice was familiar. It nagged at the back of his numb, foggy brain but no answers came. He still couldn’t remember shit. 

Well, he could remember how to take a shit. His brain was more Swiss cheese than tapioca pudding.

“He’s still unresponsive. There was a fair amount of head trauma and damage to the frontal lobe. But we’re optimistic. You’re taking command, I assume Agent Rollins?” 

_Rollins._ “I am. But we’ve got to get him back to work asap. There’s too much at stake right now. And now we have to deal with the loose end in the holding cell.” 

“Ah. The Asset has developed a tolerance to the tranquilizers, has he?” Rumlow bit the tip of his tongue as he listened. “Just drag him to the memory wipe chair and take care of it.” _Memory wipe chair_? 

“As much as l’d like to put his brain in the blender, I can’t get near him. No one can. I suppose we could gas him, but if the IV tranquilizers aren’t working then the airborne ones aren’t going to do shit. He keeps asking for Brock. Over and over again.”

“He’s dependent on his handler. That’s what we wanted. I suppose it worked a little too well. That is an interesting expression, Agent Rollins. Are you jealous of the Asset? I thought you both had just celebrated your anniversary.” 

“Just take care of him.” A huge, hot hand covered Brock’s, then ran a thumb over the meat of Brock’s palm. A squeeze. _Was he in a relationship with this man?_ “I’ll figure out what to do with the Asset.”

“We can’t replace him so don’t get too trigger happy.” The doctor sounded annoyed. 

“He doesn’t need his kneecaps.” The ice in Rollins’ voice made Rumlow’s gorge twist. They were going to torture that kid who saved his life. They were going to torture him because the kid kept asking for Brock. 

He moaned, like a character on a soap opera. Rollins was back at his side in a heartbeat, clutching at his hand that wasn’t a pincushion. “Brock!” 

“Rollins?” Brock whispered with dry lips as he cracked open his eyes. “Where am I?” 

“In your reserved suite, of course. I had them put a brass plaque engraved with your name on this bed. God, you scared me.” Rollins pressed kisses to Brock’s knuckles. _That was something._

Brock fluttered his eyes and took in the exits to the hospital room. “Mission?” _That seemed like something a_ Commander _would want to know about._

“Lost two men, seven injured. The object was recovered.” Rollins was tall, attractive in a brutal fashion that passed Brock’s standards. “I found you as soon as I could, baby. You aren’t getting out of taking out the trash as easy as dying.” He smiled with infinite fondness at Brock and Brock felt _nothing._ Less than nothing. He felt ashes of feelings. 

Brock reached up and cupped his partner’s face with a trembling hand, he ran his thumb over the scar on Rollins’ chin. “And the Asset?” 

The doctor coughed. “He’s being uncooperative. Requires your gentle touch.” The smarmy sarcasm made Brock’s teeth grate. “If you are up for a little wheelchair trip, you could see him and make him behave.” 

“He wouldn’t let go of you. I had to pry his dirty hands off and he’s been crying for you. He wants to make sure you’re okay. Disgusting.” Rollins snorted. “I knew you were good at your job, baby but that’s fucking amazing.”

Brock let his hand fall away. He was weakened, but he just didn’t feel like touching that man anymore. These weren’t the good guys. Nothing about this felt like being a good guy. And Brock was their leader. 

_Well. Fuck them._  


	3. Chapter 3

"I'm not doing anything in a hospital gown with my junk wagging around. Get me my clothes.” Rumlow ordered Rollins as he sat up and tried to wriggle feeling back into his toes. He pushed his hair back, it seemed too long for a military cut. 

“You mean your full kit?” Rollins asked. Rollins had an insignia on his shoulder, the doctor had the same on his radiation exposure badge. _SHIELD_. Whatever the fuck that was. Couldn't be a good organization with a catchy acronym if these two were working for it. Brock nodded.

"Yes, sir." Rollins said and with a smirk he added, "It's good to see you taking this seriously again. It was getting too touchy feely for my tastes." He left to go get Brock some pants, whistling a jaunty tune.

"Whipped dogs often respond to treats," the doctor quipped. _Oh I do not like you. Not one bit._ "But it is probably time for an attitude adjustment. It's been too long since the Asset's last wipe."

"How long?" Brock asked as the doctor took out his IV and catheter. He winced as the doctor had the touch of a blacksmith as he removed the tubes. “”About three weeks. Far too long for stability and pliability. You've been unconscious for about four days. The Asset has been awake that whole time and while his physiological responses do not completely adhere to human parameters, he still needs sleep. And not just a Thermos of strong black coffee like you keep suggesting." 

The doctor pointed at Brock. "Do not get out of your bed until Agent Rollins gets back. I'm not having another repeat of the Slip and Slide incidents." He looked at his phone and left the room.

There was a lot to digest in that annoyed diatribe. The kid wasn't all human? And he'd been awake this whole time? And Brock was a really bad patient that didn't listen and was probably an _asshole_. He could work with that. 

Rollins returned with more black Kevlar than one person should ever wear at one time. Apparently he went commando. The pants seemed like normal black cargo pants, too many pockets and snaps. Rollins was staring at him as he pulled the soft black t-shirt over his head, his slab of a face impassive. "Take a picture, it will last longer..." Rumlow muttered and knelt down to put on his socks. When Brock's hand touched his lace up boots, Rollins knelt down in front of him. "I can do that--" Brock protested, but Rollins slapped his hand away.

"You always do this to me."

"What? Get blown up?"

"Pretend like nothing is wrong. That you're immortal. Like your scars are badges of honor rather than warnings to avoid doing the same stupid shit over and over again--" Rollins' voice wavered as he tightened the laces. Brock gripped the edge of his chair. "And you'll sit there and not say a goddamned thing to me. Even though the Asset wasn't the only one who didn't sleep for four days because of you." Rollins tilted up his face and Brock could see the stress etched upon his face. His red lined eyes and lips tight with concern. This man _loved_ him. _Why_? Rollins sighed in resignation as Brock looked at him in bewilderment and bowed his head. Brock tentatively reached out his hand, the oil slick pomade in Rollins' hair looked disgusting, so Brock set his hand on the back of the huge man's neck instead. His _boyfriend?_ _Husband?_ rested his forehead against Brock's knee as Brock firmly stroked the nape of his neck, like he was a skittery, nervous horse that needed soothing.

After a long while, Rollins cleared his throat and Brock took his hand back. "Need help with your Cross-Your-Heart Bra?"

Brock had no idea what that meant so he said, "Yes." _Was the bra made of black Kevlar too? Wouldn't that chafe?_

Jack held up a contraption of grey canvas straps and gun holsters and Brock let out a small sigh of relief. “Not sure I’m getting the lift and separation they talked about in the ads.” Brock ventured a joke. _How could he remember an old lingerie ad slogan and not his own middle name?_

“You do have nice tits.” Rollins chuckled as he finished snapping the clasps. Rumlow felt claustrophobic in the straps, as if the cross-body harness was pushing the air from his lungs. Rollins handed Brock a huge sharp knife with a blackened blade. Brock held it in his hands as if it might leap to life and stab him. “Now let’s get this over with so we can head home. Your _pet_ needs an obedience lesson.”

His pet? That poor kid with the smudgy mascara. Brock’s fingers tightened about the hilt of the knife, finding a sure and knowing grip. “Sure."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Implied past sexual assault  
> TW: Amateur surgery

Brock stomped off down the hall until he realized that he had no idea where he was going. He stopped and pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation that wasn’t entirely false. 

“What’s wrong?” Rollins asked. 

“Oh, you better go first. I don’t feel like answering questions from concerned onlookers, you better clear a path for me.” Rollins’ jaw set and Brock felt a little sorry for any poor bastard who got in his way. They moved down the halls, Brock schooled his face into what he thought looked tough, but probably looked more constipated. He wasn’t very good at acting. Or lying. This was all so crazy. 

They stood in front of doors heavy enough to guard a bank vault. _Now what do I do?_ “Cut the cameras.” Brock ordered. 

An underling opened his mouth to protest, but Brock cut him off with a glare. “I don’t want any witnesses or recordings in there. I have my _reasons._ ”

“Yes sir!” Rollins smirked with pride as the underling squeaked and Brock felt queasy. “Do you require your special _kit_?” 

_Oh god, I hope not._ “Yes.” 

The doors opened with a pneumatic hiss and Brock stepped through them. He hazarded a glance back at Rollins. Rollins winked at him. _Gross. I bet we have had the most disgusting sex._ The doors slammed shut behind him. 

Brock’s hand flew to his mouth at the _smell_ of the holding cell. It smacked him in the face as hard as a physical blow. The kid was curled up in a ball in the corner. One blue eye peered out of the rat’s nest of filthy hair. “Hey, do you remember me?” 

“The Commander.” The kid spoke in a hushed tone. “Do you remember you?” Brock shook his head. “Then why are you here?” 

“They told me that you were calling for me,” Brock rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, it was just the right thing to do. You saved my life. And I owe you.” There was a drainage grate in the floor. Brock hoped it was for a shower, but he wouldn’t put it past these sadists for it to have a more sinister purpose. “You smell terrible.” 

The kid shrugged and Brock looked for the shower handles. He turned on the hot water and dug for some soap in the clean up bucket. _Why did they give him condoms and baby wipes?_ Brock dropped the bucket on the tiled floor in horror. _Oh god no._

He turned to the kid who was standing up and stretching. The Asset began to strip, Brock opened his mouth and shut it with a snap when he saw the kid’s gleaming silver arm. Articulated plates flowed and shifted as the kid shucked his boots and his _pants…_ Brock turned away, heat in his cheeks. “So you work out a lot?” The small talk felt clumsy in his mouth.

There was no answer, just the sound of hands finding soap in the bucket. Brock cringed as he thought about the condoms. He watched sudsy water swirl into the drain, then his eyes found the shackles on the wall, the faint red stains that hadn’t quite come out of the grout.

_I have to get you out of this place,_ Brock thought. _There’s no other option._

“Is there a mission?” The shower turned off. 

Brock chewed on his lip. He’d gotten this far on complete bullshit, why not go all the way? “There is. There _totally_ is. Our base has been infiltrated by an unknown enemy. We have no way of knowing who is loyal to our cause. Our mission is to escape from this base, find safety and then reorganize. We are the only two operatives who know what’s going on. You listen to me and only me.” 

“Understood.” The sound of a wet towel slapping on the floor and then Brock found himself pushed up against the wall by a naked, damp amputee. “Do not move.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Brock grunted as his ribs ached from the pressure. He heard rather than felt the knife sliding from the sheath, a sibilant sound of fear. “So. Whatcha doing with that knife, kid?” 

The Asset rucked up the side of Brock’s shirt, tucked it in the harness and pressed the tip of the knife against Brock’s flank. “Tracker.” Then Brock’s mind lit up with pain and he bit through the inside of his lip. “Done.” Brock uncrossed his eyes, looked at the chip that the Asset held in his bloody metal fingers. He looked like a child who had finally caughta curious insect by its wings. 

“Do you have one of those?” Brock finally asked after looking for something to staunch the small cut in his flank. _They needed a larger first aid kit. Perhaps they didn’t really care about fixing up their victims._

“I did.” One side of the Asset’s mouth quirked and after a moment he clarified, “That was a joke. It was a joke because I just ripped out my tracker.” 

Brock looked down at the blood streaming from a cut on the kid’s muscle-bound thigh. “Jesus!” He dug for a bandage and knelt down. “I didn’t see you do that! Warn a guy—“ The blood stopped and the cut seemed to seal before Brock’s eyes. He was so boggled by this that he barely noticed the hefty, soft prick that was almost brushing his cheekbone. Brock coughed and stood up, flushing red with adrenaline and embarrassment. “You could put a guy’s eye out with that thing.” 

The kid shook out his fetish uniform and used baby wipes on the stinky parts before dressing. “I am ready.” 

_I wish I was._ “I’m still thinking about how to get out of here.” 

“I would suggest the motor pool. There is an entrance to the left of these doors. It is more efficient when dealing with detainees.” The kid raked his hair back with flesh fingers and he looked impossibly young for a moment. “I should create a ruse.”

“Go for it.” The kid was probably way better at this than Brock was. 

“Press the button and tell them to open the doors.” The knife pressed against the hollow of Brock’s throat and Brock gulped. _Maybe this was a really stupid idea…_

“Open the door!” 


	5. Chapter 5

 

The surprised faces of the technician and the tall one provoked a curious sense of satisfaction in the Asset. He was doing a good job with this ruse, a pretend hostage situation. The way the Commander's pulse fluttered under the Asset’s fingertips in a surge of panic was also gratifying. The handler seemed to believe that his life was in genuine danger. That was not accurate.

No one could be trusted except for the Commander. It made sense. The Commander was the only man who the Asset listened to. His orders were unbreakable law. 

It was curious though, the way the Commander's speech patterns had changed since the accident. His cadence and phrasing were subtly slower as if the man were thinking about everything he observed. The Asset approved of this new watchfulness in his handler. Perhaps that was how the Commander had determined that there was an incursion of traitors in the organization.

The technician reached for the panic button and the Asset stabbed with the knife, pinning the tech’s hand to the desk. The tech passed out from the shock and pain and slumped to the floor.

The Asset knocked the gun out of the the Commander's favorite’s hands and began to squeeze the life out of the tall man's throat. 

He remembered the names the man on the floor had called him over the past three weeks. _Pet. Toy. Robot. Disposable._ The Asset’s fingers tightened and the mocking words faded in his memories as the man’s face turned blue. 

The Commander cried out, "Don't kill him!"

That seemed _inefficient._ ”Why not?"

"Because that's not what we do!" Now that just didn't make any sense and the Asset kept strangling his target. "He loves me! He could be useful later!” The Asset sighed and adjusted his pressure to merely incapacitate as the tall man thrashed wildly. He took the dropped pistol and the tall man's boot knife.

"Follow me." The motor pool was easy to find. The Commander couldn't locate his car so the Asset jerked a hapless secretary checking her cell phone out of the top of her convertible and set her down on the concrete floor of the parking garage.

The Commander apologized to her, "I'm so sorry. This is a matter of National Security."

She opened her mouth and the Asset snarled, "Do not scream." She shut her mouth and began to shiver. 

“I really am sorry about this.” The Commander took the wheel after apologizing _again_ and the Asset sat in the backseat. The Asset scratched his chin as he contemplated their next move. He leaned around the driver's seat and said in the Commander's ear. "Put the top up."

As they approached the security gate, the Commander said, "Let me do the talking." The guard leaned out of the window, bored to tears. The Commander glared at him and without a word, the guard lifted his hands in mock surrender and pressed the gate release. As they drove off, the guard called the Commander an ‘asshole’.

It seemed to be an accurate assessment.

 

“Shit shit shit shit shit!” The Commander muttered under his breath. “That worked! That actually worked?” 

“We should acquire a different vehicle soon.” This car was too flashy and would be promptly reported. The Asset scanned the horizon, looking for helicopters and drones. “Pull into that place.” He pointed at an strip mall. The Commander pulled up where the Asset directed him to and slunk from the car towards the drive up bank machine. 

“Target acquired.” It was mere formality but familiar phrases were comforting and focused his attention. His hair flopped in his face, disguising him from the cameras. He punched his way into the ATM and ripped out the cash cartridge. He heard a muffled cry of “Holy shit!” from the convertible and smiled under his hair. 

He got in the front seat and the Commander stared at him. “How strong are you?” 

The Asset knew theoretically, but he kept his response abstract because the Commander should have known _all_ his parameters. “Strong.” 

As they sped down the highway, the Asset turned on the radio. A sad, sad song played, the man’s mournful voice sobbed over the airwaves. _I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel…_ “This is your favorite song, Commander.” 

His handler nodded and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, “Yeah. Yeah. All time favorite.” The Commander had just confirmed a falsehood. The odds of that random song being the Commander’s favorite song were slim to none and while allowances could be made for stress and distraction, the answer confirmed the Asset’s suspicions. 

_The Commander had changed._

“Why are you staring at me?” 

“Commander—“ 

“Call me Brock. You can’t keep calling me Commander. Not in public.” A tremendous breach in protocol. “What do you want me to call you?” 

The Asset blinked, long lashes dusting his cheeks. “A code name?” 

“Well yeah. I can’t keep calling you _The Asset_. Sounds creepy. Like you belong to someone.” 

“I do belong to someone. I belong to you.” 

The Comman— _Brock_ almost drove off the road. He quickly corrected and cursed under his breath. “ _Fuck._ No. That’s not right. No man _belongs_ to another man. That’s not right. You have to have a name.”

“I have no memories of a designation other than the Asset.” He paused, “But informally, I have been called many things.” 

Brock sighed. “I’m sure I’m going to regret this, but what things have you been called?” 

“Murderer. Assassin. Tool. Project. The Winter Soldier. Fucktoy—“ The litany of titles spilled from his lips and Brock flinched at the last. 

“Winter, huh? Is Winter okay? That at least sounds like a name. So Winter, I’m thinking that we ditch this car, steal a new one, buy some clothes that don’t scream ‘ Hi, I’m a paramilitary operative and this is my sidekick the leather gimp.’ Then we’ll find a place to rest, get cleaned up and plan out the rest of our mission. Sound good?” 

The Asset nodded. _No. Not the Asset. Winter._ He had been given a new codename. He had to remember. He had to remember— he had to, had to, had to— Winter let his head fall back against the leather seat so he could watch the road behind them. 

An odd twang of an accent colored his response, but his handler didn’t notice. “Sure thing, Brock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song in the car is Hurt sang by Johnny Cash
> 
> I hurt myself today   
> To see if I still feel   
> I focus on the pain   
> The only thing that's real 
> 
> (Thank you for your comments! They make me write faster!)


	6. Chapter 6

 

They’d dumped the car across state lines, stolen another one and switched the plates. It had been an eventful evening. But Brock was starting to yawn and his head ached. He had just had a massive head trauma after all. That was to be expected. He wasn't going to just drop dead from a brain bleed or anything like that. 

Faces flickered in his memories, but he had no idea who they belonged to. A man with an eyepatch, _Pirate Dude._ An older blonde man in an expensive suit with cruel twist to his lips. _Mister Suit._ Were they his allies or his enemies? 

He glanced over at his companion who was still watching the road behind them, his chin propped on his hand. Metal fingers tapped on his leather-clad thick thigh. 

“Who gave you that arm?” Brock asked. 

“It was not a gift.” Winter shrugged his jacket off his shoulder and the red enameled star gleamed in the lights of oncoming traffic. “ _Sovetskiy Soyuz_.”

“You just sneezed, right? Gesundheit _."_

_Soviets? How old was this kid? The Cold War was decades ago…_ Brock ran his tongue over the bite wound on his lip. The sting kept him more alert. "Did you volunteer?"

"I do not remember. Yet."  

“There.” Brock pointed at the the flickering neon sign of a pay by the hour motel across the highway from a stripclub. “They won’t be picky about our cash." 

_I can’t walk in dressed like this. Even back at the base I stood out._ “How the hell do I get this thing off of me?” He struggled with his cross-body harness. Winter reached over and unclipped the release with one hand. “Thanks. That thing digs into my ribs. Does anyone wear one of those?” 

Winter shook his head. “No.” 

_Great. So I chose to wear that thing. Fashion forward I was not._ “It’s not very comfortable. Chafes.” His grumbles bounced off the other man without a response. “I’ll go get us a room. Don’t talk to anyone, keep your head down.” 

“They will not be circulating photographs of me.” Winter remarked as he adjusted the radio dial. 

“Why not?” 

“Because,” Light from the flickering neon caught the planes of the young man’s cheekbones and glimmered in eyes too old for that sweet face. “I am a ghost.”

_Well, oooookay then. That’s not creepy at all._ “I’ll go get a room now. You just, keep being you.” Brock flashed a smile that was more reassurance to himself than meant for the kid. As he got out of the car, he heard Winter humming a tune. 

_Hush little baby, don’t say a word…_

Now _that_ was creepy. 

 

The room was a threadbare dump. Sloppily patched holes in the walls and mystery stains on the carpet hinted at violence and tragedy. _If the hole is about the size of a quarter, then it’s probably a bullet hole. How do I know that?_ _Random trivia like that probably isn’t anything a normal person should know._

Brock pulled the stiff grimy comforter off of the bed and put it on the floor with a grimace. “Look, I’m sorry about the single bed, it was all they had. And if they’re looking for two of us— Look I’ll sleep in the chair,” Brock apologized and stopped when he noticed that the kid was already stripping down to wash out his clothes. Thick ropes of scars gnarled around the graft site on the kid’s torso. _That thing has to be meshed into his musculature and his skeleton. How could his body balance with that attached?_ The kid caught his gaze and held it as he continued to undress. 

He turned his back, there was something painfully intimate about watching this moment of vulnerability, even after the incident in the holding cell. “You know, I could go get some ice— Yeah I’ll go get some ice.” _The doctor had said that the Asset wasn’t within human parameters._

He’d forgotten the ice bucket. Brock fed money into the vending machines. It felt like forever since he’d eaten. He got some drinks as well and when his cargo pants and arms couldn’t carry any more, he made his way back to the room. 

He opened the door after fumbling with the key and was greeted by a gun in his face. “Jesus Christ!” 

“That is not the password.” Winter said as he pulled Brock into the room and shut it behind him. 

“I didn’t know we needed one—“ Brock began and stopped as the kid raised an eyebrow. “I mean, sorry. I’m still a little fuzzy in my brain after smacking my head.” _Hope he buys that, because it’s mostly the truth._

“You are compromised.” It wasn’t a question. Brock shifted his weight from foot to foot and put the food on the shoddy side table. He grabbed some peanuts and cracked open a citrus soda before sitting on the end of the bed. _If I say yes, will he run back to the people who hurt him? If I say no…_

“Do you trust me?” Brock asked after washing down his mouthful of peanuts. 

“You are my handler.” 

“That wasn’t an answer.” 

The Asset held out his hand and Brock, unthinkingly, poured peanuts into it. The kid’s face was unreadable from behind that mop of hair. “I do not eat.” 

_Oh shit._ “You’re not a plant.” Brock rubbed his face. “Are you?” 

“I am fed via tube. Nutrition powder.” 

Brock popped a peanut in his mouth and chewed. “That sounds disgusting. Eat your peanuts.”Winter obeyed, chewing each nut slowly as if remembering how his mouth worked. “Drink?” Brock offered his soda and the kid took a swig while watching Brock intently. 

Brock unlaced his boots and tried to not think about Rollins, kneeling before him, while the kid finished up in the bathroom. 

“So, what would you do if you were in charge here?” Brock asked while watching the Asset demolish a packet of cheese and crackers. _Not like I’m looking for inspiration or anything._

“I would sleep.” He put the gun on the table beside him. “I would watch over you while you slept and then take a turn.” 

“That sounds like a fantastic idea.” Brock flopped onto the bed and his eyes shut the moment his head hit the flat pillow. “This bed smells like my grandma’s house.” _Ashtrays_. _Old linens_. _Cheap perfume. Why did he remember that?_

“Your grandmother was not a good housekeeper.” Winter said around a mouthful of jerky. 

Brock nodded in agreement and fell asleep, the personification of Death watching over him, his mouth smeared orange with Cheeto dust.


	7. Chapter 7

The Asset licked his sticky fingers as he watched over the sleeping figure of his handler. He had moved his chair so he was out of the line of sight of the window. That wouldn’t have stopped him if he'd been behind the scope, but not many things could. 

His handler— Brock, his name was Brock— was whimpering in his sleep. Like when he'd been injured on the failed mission. The Asset listened. Words were scattered in the animalistic distress sounds but they meant nothing to the Asset, they likely would mean nothing to Brock. He was struck by an urge to curl up beside Brock, to comfort his obvious nightmare. _Why?_

They both were breaking protocol. The only times the Commander had instigated non sexual physical contact were when he was disciplining the Asset for faulty performance. He was supposed to feel humiliated, ashamed by the punishment. Perhaps it made the Commander feel better, he often smiled with tight lips when causing pain. However it did not make sense, to systematically erase any sense of self in the Asset and then expect normal disciplinary tactics to work. The Asset was patient. The longer he went without a visit to the chair, the longer he had to observe, to plan. To remember.

He wasn’t allowed on the bed, the Asset knew that. Beds were for _people._ A tiny smile of defiance curled upon his lips. He crept up, the red light of the clock radio and the curtain softened headlights from cars on the highway cast eerie shadows upon his handler’s face. 

Would he be punished? Or was the Commander so compromised that he would neglect that as well? The mission was confusing, the intelligence was off. What was the real motivation for the Commander to abandon his post? 

All those questions ticked in his brain, like the calculations for a tricky sniper shot. He gazed at the Commander and tried to make sense of all the inconsistencies. Brock began to thrash in his sleep, anguish etched in his features and something softened inside the Asset’s chest, thawed. He gathered Brock into his arms, careful to keep the chill of his metal arm off of Brock’s bare flesh. 

“Jack.” Brock breathed and quieted, soothed by the perceived presence of another man. This peevishly irritated the Asset. It shouldn’t matter. It didn’t matter. _It did matter._

“No.” The Asset said into Brock’s ear. He felt the handler stiffen as he slowly understood who was holding him close. “You had a nightmare. Sleep now.” 

“You’re supposed to be on guard duty.” Brock whispered. The Asset huffed assent with hot breath against the back of Brock’s neck. 

“I will not sleep.” Brock smelled like sweat and a lingering trace of cheap body spray. He could hear the handler’s pulse leap and it amused him. “Hush now.” 

“It’s hard to sleep with you clinging to me like a handsy octopus. I am a man! I am not made of stone, damn it.” Brock protested and tried to squirm away. 

The Asset began to hum. _Hush little baby, don’t say a word…_ He tightened his grasp _._

“You’re not going to let go of me. Are you?” Brock sighed in resignation. 

The Asset shook his head, still humming. The motion made the tip of his nose graze the soft, shorn hairs at the back of Brock’s neck. Another shiver from the handler, but this time the Asset did not think it was from distress. “Shhh…” His flesh hand grasped Brock’s pectoral and squeezed in a way that was meant to be comforting. 

“I’m _trying._ Quit groping me. And I can feel _that._ You’re poking me in the small of the back.” Brock sounded irritated, sleepy and confused. “That better be your gun.” 

Laughter bubbled up from the Asset, startling himself for a moment. “That wasn’t a joke.” Brock said. 

The Asset began singing again and petted Brock’s soft hair. In the darkness it was easy for his mind to wander, for dark hair to become blonde and his caresses changed to something softer, more fond. It took a while for Brock to relax, but when he finally dozed off the Asset smiled with satisfaction into his skin.

There would be no more punishments. The Commander wasn’t in charge. It was up to the Asset— no. It was up to _Winter_ to salvage this mission and save his compromised handler. 

“Until… Until the…” It was no use. Winter nuzzled his stubble against the back of Brock’s neck. “Until the morning, I suppose.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW for this chapter: Graphic short descriptions of torture. Allusions to sexual abuse. Jorts.

Brock awoke in an empty bed with a massive caffeine withdrawal headache. He smacked his lips and pushed himself up from the mattress. He had a crick in his neck and there were impression marks upon his face, divots and grooves from the kid’s prosthetic arm. 

Winter sat crosslegged at the end of the bed, which was amazing given how tight those leather pants were, looking at Brock. His hair was mussed, eyes thinly lined with blacking and he was wearing a long-sleeved black t-shirt with the Iron Maiden logo on it. He looked like one of those guys who hung out at heavy metal concerts, dated girls with blue hair and too many piercings.

“So. New look?” Brock picked the sleep boogers out of the corners of his eyes. Winter lifted a suitcase from the floor and set it on the bed. There were tourist stickers all over it. “Where did you get that?” 

“They looked like our sizes.” Winter said as an explanation for his theft, as he opened the suitcase and laid out an outfit for Brock. “Here. It is a disguise.” 

Brock’s face contorted in disgust. “Those are an abomination. That’s what those are.” Denim shorts. _Jorts_. Why did it have to be jorts?A tropical print short sleeved shirt. And a baseball cap. Brock read it aloud, “World’s Best Daddy,” and groaned. “I’m not wearing that.” 

“It is an easy way to cover your hair. Why do you not want to wear it?” 

Brock gritted his teeth. “It makes me uncomfortable and I’m not explaining why!” _First of all he wasn’t that old, second of all he was allergic to the word Daddy._

Winter nodded and produced a switchblade from thin air. “Then we should shave your head.” 

Brock grabbed the hat and pulled it on. “There. Are you happy now?” 

Winter scratched at his chin, “You seem tense.” 

Brock resisted the urge to pull the blankets up to his chin. “I can’t imagine why.” _I’ve got an allergy to switchblades._ The Asset unfolded his limbs and stood up. Brock pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to will his throbbing headache away. The Asset sat beside him, his leather-clad thigh touching Brock’s. “What?” _Is he just fucking with me now?_

“Order 47A.” Winter pinned Brock with his gaze. 

“You’re not going to hurt me if I say that, are you?” Brock asked, not entirely reassured by the Asset’s head shake. “Order 47A?” 

Winter pushed Brock face first into the mattress. “What the fuc— _oooooh_.” Brock moaned as impossibly strong fingers kneaded the knots in his muscles, plucked and twanged rigid tendons. It was the most intense back rub he’d ever gotten and he was drooling into the sheets by the time Winter flipped him over and handed him a bottle of water. 

“Drink.” Brock obeyed because he had been massaged into compliance. “Order 47B?” 

At this point, Brock was relaxed into a puddle of docility so he parroted back, “Order 47B.” Winter slid his flesh hand down the waistband of Brock’s pants and Brock sat up in shock. “Wait! What?”

Winter sighed at him as he curled his fingers around Brock’s dick. “Order 47B.” He deftly pulled and stroked the flesh as if he had had a lot of practice at it _OH MY GOD NO_ — 

Brock grabbed Winter’s wrist and carefully, very carefully extricated his hand from Brock’s pants. “I think we can abort Order 47B. Okay? I’m going to go take a shower, okay? Okay. Watch some tv or something. Okay? Okay.” Brock made his way to the bathroom, grazing his shin against the doorframe. Winter was watching him with suspicion on his face and Brock shut the bathroom door. 

He took off the stupid hat, looked in the mirror. He had bruises under his eyes that made them look more deep-set, more sunken than usual. His face was gaunt, haunted. 

Brock pinched his own cheeks and gave himself a halfhearted slap to the face. They hadn’t just tortured that kid. The bucket of condoms and baby wipes, the coded orders, the massage that led to a hand job… His stomach lurched and he spat bile into the the sink. He’d made the right choice, getting the hell out of that place, but now he had no idea where to go next. 

Brock turned on the shower. He stayed in the shower spray until the water ran cold, but he didn’t feel clean. 

 

_How long did amnesia last?_ Brock thought as they drove down the freeway. _This can’t be permanent. Do I want to remember? What is my life? Seriously, could someone tell me because I cannot remember and I think I royally fucked up along the way because there’s no way a sane man would have chosen this screwed up life—_

Winter’s voice cut through Brock’s rambling internal monologue with the precision of his hidden switchblade. “You lost your memories after you hit your head.”

_Maybe I should stop the car and run away screaming…_ That didn’t seem like the most fruitful of plans, so instead he buzzed his lips. “Noooo… of course not. _Pfft_. That’s stupid—“ The Asset crossed his arms, the seams of his heavy metal shirt stretched and complained. 

“Oh look! There’s a truck stop. I don’t know about you but I could sure use some coffee and some food that wasn’t in a vending machine. Have you ever had pancakes? Fluffy buttermilk pancakes with gooey syrup and like a slab of bacon? Mmmm. Sounds good!” Brock pulled off the road at the truck stop diner and parked the car. 

They sat in a booth away from the windows towards the back of the diner. There was a large television blasting cable news behind the cash register. Something about clean up after an invasion in New York. Brock didn’t even try to understand that news. 

They looked at the sticky menus. Well, Brock hid behind his menu so that he didn’t have to meet Winter’s penetrating stare. The waitress came over and asked, “Coffee?” 

“Oh please.” Brock smiled up at her and she read his hat. 

“And for your son?” _Damn it. He was too young to be the kid’s dad._

The Asset nodded and she filled their mugs. “We’ll have a number 5 and a number 7. Just leave the coffee pot.” Brock said and after the waitress left, he rapped his fingers on the table, nervously. 

“I’m sure you have a lot of questions.” Brock began. _I sound just like my father, after I caught him with the neighbor lady in his car._

“You lost your memories after you hit your head. You are compromised and we should return to base for reassessment and disciplinary measures.” The Asset took a sip of his black coffee. “That would be standard protocol.”

“We can’t go back there.” Brock fiddled with a pink packet of sugar, the grains flowed from one edge to the other. “They were going to torture you.” 

Winter shook his head and took another sip. 

“Look you didn’t hear what they were planning for you, they would have tortured you—“ 

Winter set down his coffee. The waitress had brought their food. She slid a tall stack of pancakes in front of Winter and her eyes slid over his bulging muscles. Brock didn’t warrant a second glance. He did currently look like warmed over crap. 

“Thanks doll.” Winter said with the easiest grin Brock had ever seen and the waitress cracked a smile as she left.

“No.” Winter cut a piece of his pancakes, dipped it into syrup, chewed and swallowed. “They would not have tortured me.” Another bite, followed by a strip of bacon. “They would have had you do it.” 

Brock dropped his fork with a clatter on his plate. “What?” The world seemed to blur and shift around him. 

“You were the best at it. Battery acid.” _The way flesh sizzled and melted away with a few drops…_ “Jumper cables.” _They twitched and spasmed before losing control of their bowels…_ “Waterboarding.” _Gurgling and desperation…_

Brock stared at his shaking hands. His shaking hands covered in the blood of countless victims. The worst part wasn’t the smells or the sounds that assaulted Brock’s memories, the worst part was that… “ _I liked it_.” 

His face crumpled and he closed his eyes. “I liked all of it.” Brock forced himself to look at Winter, even that simple gesture felt like woeful penance for acts he could never possibly atone for. “Did I— did I hurt you?”

Winter took another bite of his pancakes and regarded Brock with cool blue eyes. “You practiced on me. I heal quickly. You mostly used me for recreational purposes.” He let that revelation punch into Brock’s gut and then gestured with his fork. “You should eat. Pancakes are good.” 

“I hurt you.” Brock’s mouth was dry. “Why are you still sitting there? I don’t understand.”

“You are my handler. You are the Commander.” Winter licked his fork. “And you need my help. You are my mission. Refill.” 

Brock filled up the mug the Asset held out. His hand was still shaking and the coffee sloshed over the edge onto Winter’s metal hand. “Oh I’m so sorry!” As the coffee dripped down, Brock whispered “I’m so, so sorry,” knowing that it would never be enough. He grabbed a napkin, daubed up the coffee and for a moment, he held Winter’s metal hand. “I’ll do my best, my best to make this right.”

Winter tilted his head to the side. “What was wrong about it?”

Brock sat back, rubbed his hands on his thighs. “People aren’t supposed to treat each other like that. They just aren’t. That I have to tell you that, it just makes it so much worse. We have to get help. We have to find someone who will listen to us.”

The television behind the register blared, “And let’s hear it for Captain America!” Winter’s head swiveled towards the television, his eyes wide. “Steve Rogers everyone!” 

Winter’s metal fingers crushed his ceramic coffee mug. 

 


	9. Chapter 9

Winter fumbled with the local road map as he spread it out over the dashboard. “There is a library, here.” He poked at the map and his finger went through the paper. It was the first time that Brock had seen the young man rattled. It was unnerving, it made Brock want to protect the kid even more. It was ridiculous. 

Brock nodded. They’d left a hefty tip for the waitress because of the mess they'd made. “So. The man on the television. You knew him.” 

Winter nodded with tight lips. He leaned back against the seat and stared off into the distance. 

“Are you sure he wasn’t just one of your missions?” Winter glared at the insinuation and Brock held up his hand. “Didn’t mean anything by that. I’m here to help, you know that.” 

“I was an assassin. But I did not try to kill that man.” Winter finally said. "I'm sure of it."

“How do you know?” Brock asked, as he pulled onto the highway. “Your memory seems to be as spotty as mine.” 

Winter’s voice was distant, quiet. “I remember them.” His hair fell over his eyes. “I remember all of them.”

“Shit.” Brock swore. “I don’t know— I don’t know if I could live with that.” _I don’t want to remember._

“I guess we’ll find out.” Winter said, metal fingers rapping upon his thigh. “I guess we’ll find out together.” He turned on the radio because he didn’t want to talk anymore, leaving Brock alone with his thoughts.

They needed intel and a library in the middle of nowhere seemed like a good place to find it. Brock fed the parking meter and they made their way into the building. The librarian glanced up at them, filed them away as tourists and looked back down at her keyboard. _Jorts were a very effective disguise, he’d have to remember that for the future…_ What the hell was he thinking? For the future? They'd be lucky to make it to the end of the week.

He made his way to the new releases and magazines. The chiseled face of Captain America stared up at him from a hardcover coffee table book. _Wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers._ “The Official Biography of Steve—“ Brock began, but Winter snatched it out of his hands and headed to a table in the stacks. “You’re welcome, _son._ ” 

Brock located a book on SHIELD out of morbid curiosity. He sat beside Winter who was reading each page of the picture-filled book with an unnerving intensity. 

Brock tried to digest his much drier tome. SHIELD was _good_? Nothing made sense to Brock, he flipped through the pages. The book fell open to an insignia, a death’s head with the label of _HYDRA_. Brock broke out into a cold sweat. He knew that name. He tapped on the page to get Winter’s attention, but the kid was engrossed in something else.

It was an old photograph of a group of soldiers in World War 2 called The Howling Commandos. Steve Rogers stood in the middle. 

“How the hell is he still alive?” Brock whispered and then he saw what Winter was staring at. The man standing on Rogers’ right. “Oh my god.” 

“James Buchanan Barnes. _Bucky_.” Winter read aloud and he earned a shush from the librarian. “I know that name.” He looked at Brock with haunted eyes. “That’s— that’s my name. I know my name. My _name_.”

Brock didn’t know what to say so instead he squeezed the kid’s hand and smiled, “Bucky, huh? At least it’s short. It could have been something stupid like Jim Bob Barnes, right?” 

Bucky clutched the book to his chest. “I need this.” Brock scratched his chin and thought about how best to rip off a library. 

“Here. Take this one too. I’ll take care of the librarian.” Brock said as he handed his book to Bucky and was wounded by the look of unease Bucky shot him. “I mean, I’ll be a distraction. What did you think I meant?” Brock held up his hand before Bucky could answer, “Never mind.” 

Brock made his way over to the computer terminal and kicked the power strip with his toe. Then he sat down at the terminal and noisily clacked some keys. “Excuse me? Excuse me?” Brock called out, his voice nasal and whiny. “The computer won’t work.” 

The librarian sighed and walked over, gave the set up a once over and then bent over to flip the power back on. “That should fix it. Have you used our system before?” 

Brock shook his head and the librarian began her list of rules for the computer. Brock nodded and out of the corner of his eye he saw Bucky make his exit. Brock clicked on a random news site. Nothing made sense out of context for him. He watched a cat video for a moment. Typed in the word, HYDRA and watched atrocities scroll across the screen. _Well shit. That’s not good. None of that is remotely good._

Out of curiosity, Brock typed in the phrase _winter soldier._ The closest result he got was the quote:  "The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country" - Thomas Paine”

Brock blinked and shut the browser down. As he passed the front desk he shoved a wad of cash into the donation box. _That would probably cover the books._ Something about that quote made the hair on the back of his arms stand on end.  “The summer soldier. The summer soldier.” Brock muttered on the way back to their car. Why did the name HYDRA sound so familiar? Why did it feel like he’d just made a huge mistake?

 

“We have him.” Jasper Sitwell said from his command center in Washington DC. He pointed at coordinates on the screen. “Someone at that location just searched the terms HYDRA and Winter Soldier.” He pressed a button and sent the coordinates to a hovering quinjet.

“Copy.” Jack Rollins confirmed. He rubbed at the bruises encircling his throat. “Move out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one tonight! Thank you for all the lovely comments! They really do make me update quicker. Motivation! :)


	10. Chapter 10

 

Something nagged at the back of Brock's brain. To be honest, many things. He’d get a flash of an image from time to time, usually with a smell or a sound as a trigger. A car backfired and he’d reached for a weapon on his waist that wasn’t there. He was edgy, paranoid, but he had no idea what to be looking for over his shoulder.

There were holes in his memories that you could drive a truck through. It felt important to keep driving. As long as they were traveling, Brock didn't have to worry about their destination.

Bucky hadn’t stopped reading the stolen books.  “You’re going to get carsick.” Brock warned him. 

“I could read this on a roller coaster.” Bucky sighed. He read a passage aloud for the twentieth time. “'Best friends since childhood'. I don't remember being a child."

_Wasn’t that just the saddest thing?_ Brock rubbed his increasingly stubbled chin. He was in the awkward stage right before stubble became a beard and it was itchy. “Don’t feel so bad, I don't remember a lot of it either.” 

"That's because you're so old." Bucky flipped to the next page. 

"Not too old to kick your ass." Brock grumbled.  "And you're like a hundred years old, more than twice my age. You just look like an actor on one of those teen tv shows."

"Whatever you say, Old Man." Bucky shut the book and clasped it to his chest. “Are we going to find a place to sleep?“

Brock shook his head. “Nah. Sleep in the car." _Less of a chance the kid would try to fuck around with him. He was only human and the kid seemed to be testing limits anyway he could._ "I-- I feel like we're being watched."

A shrug. “We probably are."

"Yeah." After a few miles Brock asked, “Do you wish that you could forget all those people you killed?" 

"No. But when I was frozen, when I was asleep, then they didn't talk to me. I haven't been alone in my head for a long time."

"What do they say to you?" Brock asked out of morbid fascination.

"They beg for their lives. Cry. Pray. Just like they'd do when _you_  held a gun to their heads."

"Is there room in your deep freeze? I don't want to remember what I did." Brock’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. "I don't think I could bear it." _Maybe the amnesia was permanent. Perhaps he’d never remember it all. Life wasn’t that good to him. He had a feeling that he deserved to suffer._

Bucky reached over and patted Brock’s shoulder. “Strong shoulders carry much weight." The statement sounded like a foreign proverb.  

Brock indulged in a smile. “Yeah, but regret doesn't mean much in the criminal justice system. And I think I'm married. I feel like there should be a ring on this hand. How the hell did that happen?" He held up his left hand. There was a faint ring tan line upon his olive skin. 

"Who would marry you?" Bucky opened his book, turned a page and deadpanned, "You are so old."

“You little shit. Do not make me pull this car over. I will, so help me." _He sounded like his father._ Brock sighed. Maybe this little bit of good might help his lighten his soul, if not his criminal record. He tried not to think about the practical applications for battery acid. 

 

They ate street tacos in their car from a food truck parked on an offramp. Brock peered inside his tortilla. “I think the taco girl gave you more meat than me. Did you make eyes at her?”

Bucky blinked long dark lashes at him and Brock began to babble.“Rollins likes tacos too, loads up on the onions and cilantro. Likes habaneros.” Brock looked at his food. “Huh. Out of all the thing for me to remember, I remember what kind of chili he likes to burn his guts with. What made me marry that guy?"

Bucky licked hot sauce off his thumb. "The tall one that I throttled? I would assume that you found him attractive." Then he made a face of disgust.

"Not your type huh? Let me guess, you like blond guys. Or blonde girls?" 

"Redheads too." Brock took a drink of his soda while he processed that response. 

Bucky pointed at his precious book as he wiped his fingers on a napkin. "Double dates. They talk about double dates in this book. What is a double date?"

_Finally, a question that I know the answer to._ ”That's when you take a friend and their date with you. More fun that way, less pressure to talk to your date."

Bucky nodded. ”We should do that."

Brock drained his soda to give himself a moment to think. “How do I put this… I don't think your date and my date would get along."

"Why not?” Bucky flipped to the last page.“They work together. Look." Bucky tapped on a photo. _SHIELD_. Steve Rogers worked for SHIELD too. He worked for the same assholes that they were running from.

Brock had a sudden flareup of heartburn as he contemplated those implications. ”Son of a bitch."

 

"We need to go back to DC." Bucky said in Brock's ear as he dozed. Brock jerked awake. "We need to go back to DC." Bucky repeated.

Brock sputtered, “Back into the lion's den? That's incredibly stupid." _He couldn’t go back. Going back meant learning who and what he was. He liked who he was_ now.

“That's where Steve is." The kid declared, mule-stubborn.

"That's where ALL of them are, Bucky. Why don't we just keep on driving? There’s no shame in running. It's a big country, we could maybe make new lives, figure some of this shit out--" 

Bucky's metal fingers clamped down on the steering wheel, it groaned in protest. "We are going back." His eyes were steel blue, flinty with determination. 

Brock lashed out, “Did you ever think that maybe he's better off without you?" An unbridled wave of cruelty flowed through him, he knew the words that would hurt the most. He knew how to make people pay attention. “Did you think about the fact that you coming back into his life will just fuck it up? He’s a hero. You’re an assassin. He thinks you're dead and maybe it's better that way. That way he can love the memory of you and not what you’ve _become_.“

"Now you sound like the Commander I knew." Bucky got out of the car, slammed the door behind him and vanished into the night.

Brock got out of the car. He kicked the tire. What had he done? He ran his hands through his hair and kicked at the tire again. How could Brockfix that? Could he fix anything? He had to try. 

Brock headed off into the woods in the direction that Bucky had gone. That was a mistake. He couldn’t see shit and the kid was all in black. He wanted to call out, but his pride stilled his tongue. Instead he muttered bitterly as he threw up his hands,“”Fuck me."

A familiar voice said behind him, “Only if you ask me nicely, baby." And then Brock was face-down in the dirt, his arms restrained behind him. _Rollins._


	11. Chapter 11

“Get the fuck off of me!” Brock cried out as he thrashed beneath Rollins. 

“Okay.” Rollins let go of his wrists and Brock scrambled to his feet, his _World’s Best Daddy_ hat askew. “I’m Jack Rollins and I'm here to rescue you.” The big man smiled at Brock like that was supposed to mean something, like an inside joke. Oh they were definitely a couple.  

“Well aren’t you just my knight in shining Kevlar armor.” Brock wiped some dead leaves out of his stubble. “That makes me the princess in distress, doesn’t it?” He spat out some dirt. 

Rollins looked Brock up and down. “Not in that outfit you’re not.” Then he snapped back in to mercenary mode. “Come with me. We’re going back to DC and I’ll carry you if I have to. Your Highness.” The big man looked like he could do exactly that. “There are a lot of questions that are above my pay grade that you have to answer.” 

Brock rubbed the back of his neck as he followed Rollins. “Questions? Oh that’s great. I love questions. Answering and clarifying. That’s me. What kind of questions?”  _Why was everyone trying to drag him back to that place?_

“I don’t know, Brock, how about why did the Asset take you hostage and go on the run? Why didn’t you contact us earlier? Why didn’t you try to escape?” Rollins stopped in his tracks and glared at Brock. “We got your signal in the library. I wouldn’t let them give up on you. It’s been _weeks._ ” 

Brock didn’t know what to do, so he dropped his eyes to the forest floor and let his shoulders slump. “I— I— I’m _sorry._ I've been so weak.” His damn lip trembled and Rollins caught him up in his arms. Bits of weapons and body armor poked into Brock’s body and he bit back a wince. 

“Did he hurt you?” Rollins asked in a fierce whisper as he stroked the nape of Brock's neck. "I will slit his throat if he hurt you."  _That's a bit much?_

Brock pushed his way out of the embrace and pointed at his head. “He made me wear this hat.” He huffed out a ragged sigh and turned his body away. “I don’t want to talk about it.” 

Rollins’ lips compressed into a thin line. “That _monster._ ”He motioned to Brock, “Come on. The quinjet is in a clearing over there.” 

“Did you come alone?” Brock did his best to leave a trail, just in case Bucky was tailing them. 

“Of course not. Brought the whole squad. They volunteered.”  _Fuck fuck fuck._

“That’s… sweet of them.” Brock said as he cast his eyes about, looking for a glint of silver in the shadows. 

“They wanted to be included in the afterparty. You know, when you recondition the Asset?” Rollins laughed and Brock fought back the urge to kick the big man’s knees out from under him. “They’re sentimental like that. The good old times.” 

“Yeah.” Brock spat out, his eyes narrowed to slits. “The good old times.” 

It was a short trek to the transport, a field dotted with wildflowers that caught moonlight on their petals. Rollins pressed in his code and the door slid open. He climbed up on the ladder and extended his hand to Brock. He smiled with tenderness, a softness that seemed alien upon his scarred face and was far too sweet to ever be directed at Brock.“I missed you. It’s so good to have you b—-“ Rollins seized up, shook and collapsed into the bulkhead. A familiar whiff of ozone filled Brock’s nose. He scampered up the ladder.

“Hi.” Bucky said from the pilot’s seat, tapping a spent shockstick idly upon his thigh. 

“Where are the rest of them?” Brock asked as he pulled Rollins’ body into the cabin. He found restraints and secured the big man’s wrists and ankles. 

“Secured in the hold.” Bucky yawned. “Took you long enough to get here.” 

“How did you do that?” Brock sputtered, “You took down a full squad, restrained and secured them?” 

Bucky tucked his long hair behind his ear and intoned, “I am a _ghost._ ” Then he ruined the effect with a smirk. 

“Oh shut up.” Brock sat in the co-pilot’s seat. There were a lot of bells, whistles and switches. He’d have had better luck performing open heart surgery than trying to fly this bird. “I hope you know how to fly this thing.” 

Bucky flicked switches and adjusted the throttle without looking at what he was doing. “A little bit.” 

“You know, I think that you were kind of an asshole before you got modified. It’s good that you’re starting to recover that part of your personality.” Brock chewed on his lip. “They think you kidnapped me and tortured me.” 

“Other way around. I mean, have they heard what kind of music you like? Practically a war crime.” Bucky buzzed his lips. “But perhaps, you should encourage that misconception. Ever play the honeypot before? It should be easy, he’s already smitten. Poor dumb bastard.” 

Brock felt a feral grin pull at his lips. He could do this, he had been very good at it. He could feel it in his bones, the easy ways to manipulate affection. Make it feel like something righteous, something powerful and real. He shook his head. _No. I’m just gathering intel. That’s all. I’m not_ enjoying _this._

“Buck. Tie me up. And don’t look so happy about it.” 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: Brock is a bag of dicks. Scarification.

_In the future, I’ll piss before asking to be hogtied,_ Brock thought and huffed out a sigh. The kid had been very efficient at it, rigging it so Brock could shrug out of the knots if he needed to. Now he just had to wait until… what was his name? Until _Jack_ woke up. His name was Jack. 

Brock took a long hard look at the man laying on the metal floor beside him. Bucky had stripped him of his gear, his black t-shirt was stretched high over his bulging muscles. His slack face and mussed up hair made him appear younger, more innocent. Brock frowned, that was a load of bullshit. He’d heard things from that mouth that curdled his stomach, chilled his spine. Revolting. 

The metal floor was not at all comfortable and Brock kicked out with his feet, catching Jack in the shins several times. “Wake up!” Brock hissed. When that didn’t work he inched closer and said as loud as he could, “Attention!” right in Jack’s face, their foreheads touching. 

Slow sleepy lids blinked open, held Brock with a green-eyed gaze. — _Early Sunday mornings, fresh coffee and the paper, lazy foot rubs while listening to old records, arguing about television shows—_ Brock shivered as Jack watched him. “Welcome back. The kid— the Asset left to go round up some stragglers. We only have a few minutes.” 

Jack nodded, “I’ll set the autopilot, it’s voice activated— oh.” He saw the wires hanging from the voice command console. “That’s a no go.” Jack swallowed hard. “He’s going to kill us.” Jack said with a dull certainty.

“You think?” Brock snarked. “After everything you did to him—“ 

Jack’s brow furrowed, “After everything _I_ did to him? You asshole. You always think you’re immortal, that death is something that happens to other people. I’m surprised you’re still breathing and have all your fingers after everything you’ve done to him.” 

— _That’s right you dumb animal. Lick my boots you defective tool. The only worth you have is as The Fist of Hydra.—_

Truth prickled along Brock’s spine, churned in his gorge as he heard words in his own voice and he forgot what he was supposed to be doing, he lashed out. “You’re a monster! I know about all the torture and abuse and it’s disgusting! You’re disgusting.” He spat the words in Jack’s face. 

Jack’s face turned to stone. “I’m disgusting? I’m a _monster?_ Well, if I’m a monster then that is because _you_ made me into one.”

“That’s a lie.” Brock said as he wriggled to escape his bonds. “That’s a filthy lie!” _He had to get away, get away!_

“You recruited me, chose me. You seduced me. You created me and you don’t get to throw me away. Not for that brainless _thing._ I don’t give a shit about the master plan, about this country. I only ever cared about you. I did everything you ever asked of me, I sold my soul. And you’re telling me that I’m a monster? Fuck you, Brock Rumlow.” 

Brock shook loose of his ropes and sat up, held his knees close to his chest. “I never. I never. _I never wanted you!”_ He clutched at his head, rocked back and forth as the pain flared in his brain.

Jack’s face crumpled at the declaration and he began to yell back, but stopped. Softly, Jack asked, “What’s wrong with you?” 

“Nothing! Nothing’s wrong with me! It’s all you!” Brock’s face was wet with tears. “Stop looking at me! Stop talking to me! I never wanted you!” 

“You wanted me. I can prove it.” Jack said, soothingly. “Lift up my shirt, look at my back. Go on. Go on.” 

It was impossible to resist, the urge to verify something in his life, something that might not have been horrible. Maybe he did truly love this man, this man who was looking at him with the softest eyes. Brock reached out a trembling hand, pulled up the fabric. 

Just above Jack’s bound wrists was a mark on the small of his back. A ragged red scarred monogram. BR. He touched it just to be sure it wasn’t an illusion. — _The scent of singed flesh and semen, sweat and triumph. Heady and sweet—_

“See baby? You did that when I moved into your place. With a cigarette lighter and a knife. You said that you wanted any other man who touched me to know who I truly belonged to. That no one else would ever have me. You told me that no one would ever love me the way you did.” Jack smiled up at him, sweetly. “That’s how I know you’ve got some kind of head injury related amnesia. Because I’m yours. You made me and I’m with you always. You’d never forget that. You’re too proud of your hard work. I love you, Brock. And you love me too.” 

_Love? No. There was no love. Satisfaction and pride at breaking and molding something beautiful and dangerous. Toys. Tools. Playthings._ Brock began to shake with guilt and revulsion at himself. 

“So untie me baby and let’s go set the world on fire. You look so beautiful surrounded by flames.” 

_Was this the truth? Was he just trying to fight the inevitable? Would it be easier to just_ give in _? Fighting back hurt so much—_

“Well you are terrible at this.” Bucky said from the shadows. He walked over and picked Brock up, set him on his feet. “Remember our mission?” 

“You get your hands off of him!” Jack snarled. 

“No.” Bucky replied and kicked Jack in the face. Jack fell back, limp and Brock swore that a ghost of a smile touched Bucky’s lips. “Have a seat, we’re heading to DC.” 

Brock got in the copilot’s chair, fastened the seatbelt and shivered. _How many lives had he touched and corrupted? How could he ever repent for all his sins? There wasn’t a God merciful enough for him to pray to._ “Okay. Just try not to crash this thing.” 

That would be too easy a way out. 


	13. Chapter 13

 

The closer the quinjet got to Washington DC, the more Brock regretted ever being born. Where did he go wrong in his life? Did his mother not hug him enough? Did he start collecting dead animals and guns? That’s how people like him started out, right? People who enjoyed hurting others. People who got off on it. Brock glanced back at Jack, still passed out on the floor, the crisscross of Bucky’s boot heel imprinted on his cheek and his nose flattened. He remembered the ghost of a smile upon Bucky’s lips and said, “You liked doing that.”

Bucky shrugged, the metal plates in his arm shifted and adjusted like a waterfall. “It is good for him to know that he is not your favorite.” 

Brock rubbed the back of his neck. “The _favorite_? What the fuck does that mean?” 

Bucky adjusted a dial before replying, “He used to be your favorite. Now he is not. Maybe he can move on now that he knows he was discarded.”

_Well this seemed like a troubling development._ “Who is my favorite?” Brock asked, rubbing a little more salt into his wounds. 

Bucky tapped on his metal arm. “You chose me. You chose me over him, over your career with HYDRA and your personal safety. I am your favorite, Commander.” He grinned, a toothsome grin that seemed grossly abnormal and out of character for him. “You are my handler and I need you to complete our mission.” He patted Brock on the leg.

“Maybe I should just… I don’t know… let you go on your own? Seems like you’d want to be alone—“ Brock stammered, uncomfortable with the weird intimacy. 

“No!” Bucky shot back. “You have to be with me.” 

“Why?” 

“You still have power there. People believe you, believe your words. I’m no one. I’m nothing. There is one person who remembers me and he thinks that I am dead. You have to come with me. Complete our mission, Brock Rumlow. Finish what you started.” 

“I suppose that makes sense— Wait! What? HYDRA? I had a career with HYDRA?” Brock sputtered as a few more lights flicked on in the cavern of his memories. “The bad guys?” It rang horribly true. 

“Yes.” Bucky said, “Nobody will believe me. I’m an assassin.”

“I’m a _traitor_. Oh my god. Do you know what they do to people who commit treason? Do you? If I’m not executed, I’ll be locked away in a black site for the rest of my life!” Brock dug his nails into his hands. “I’m not a stupid person, am I? Why would I do that?” 

“Perhaps you though that you would win.” Bucky said as he tucked his hair behind his ear. “ETA four hours.” 

 

His handler was not handling things. The man was falling apart as more of his memories came back to him. Bucky glanced at Brock who was rapping his fingers on the seat arm and muttering things to himself about bad ideas, treason and fucking his life. 

He did enjoy kicking Jack Rollins in the face. The man had been too zealous in his attempts to curry favor with Brock, to be the perfect disciple. Always the first in line for discipline. 

What did it take to make a man abandon everything and become a tool, a toy for others to use as they saw fit? His grip tightened on the steering stick. Trigger words. Mind control. The mind-wipe chair. The longer he was away from it, the more he remembered. The more he remembered, the more ashamed and afraid he was. But Brock seemed to have it worse.

Brock was shaking and holding his head from time to time as if in tremendous pain. He was suffering and Bucky felt a stab of pity for the man. The man who had controlled his life, manipulated and abused him. Surely a monster could not feel pity, could not empathize with another. 

And that’s why Bucky hadn’t pushed the lot of them out of the quinjet at 50,000 feet in the air. He was not a monster either.

“I have a theory.” Bucky spoke in a soft tone and Brock lifted his head. “What are memories?” 

“Umm. Do you not know?” Brock said and Bucky gestured at him to elaborate. Brock huffed out a sigh. “Memories are like a recording in your brain of your past actions and experiences.” 

Bucky nodded. “And if a man had no memory of his past actions or experiences? Then who would he be?” 

“He’d be me about about a week ago. Terrified and lost.” Brock closed his eyes. “But it was simpler, more free and I kinda miss the luxury of not having to deal with all my past bullshit.” 

“My theory is that if you remove memories then you take a man’s personality back to the basics. Untainted and untouched by those memories. You find out what type of person you were, before.” He wasn’t a killer until he was trained, wiped and directed. That's what the pictures in the book had shown him. The testimonials about his character from the surviving Howling Commandos.He was a soldier, but he wasn't a killer. And neither was Brock, not from how he reacted from the mere suggestion of the act.

“So you’re saying that I wasn’t born a total shitbag? Because that’s what I’m remembering and I’m not happy about it.” Brock’s eyes glimmered with something like hope. 

“I do not think that I was the only man put in the mind-wipe chair or subjected to behavior modification.” Bucky let that sink into his handler’s thoughts. “What better way to have an army of true-believers than to create them?”

“So, you think there’s a chance that I’m not a total bag of dicks? That I was made into this mess?” The hope and yearning in Brock’s voice was oddly painful.

“I do. I was made into an assassin. Why would it be any different for you?” 

“Oh Buck.” Brock sighed again as he glanced back at Jack, his nose bleeding down his scarred face. “Sometimes people are horrible without any help. And— and— I think I was one of those assholes. I don’t want to be. I really don’t. But my initials are burnt into his back. Into his _skin_. Normal people don’t do that. Good people don’t hurt people they care about like that. And the way he talks about me… It makes my stomach hurt because I can remember the pleasure I got from being a complete bastard. Even you said that I was good at it. You don’t get good at torture without a lot a practice. I— I’m no hero.” 

Bucky shook his head. “You helped me. The Commander would have never done that. Let your actions now define you. Not your past.” He needed to convince Brock to stay with him, to back him up. A small part of Bucky didn’t want to be alone anymore either. There was no guarantee that Steve Rogers would be as welcoming as Bucky hoped. Brock was a good back up, he’d introduced Bucky to Cheetos and root beer. “So we will complete this mission. See things through to the end of the line.”

"It's not like I have any choice about it." Brock grumbled. "And how are you going to find Rogers? You can't just walk up to him and say, Hi. Remember me? I'm not dead. Have you thought about any of this?"

"That's why I have you. You're my handler." Bucky smirked. "Handle things." Brock shook his head and went back to ruminating on his fate. He wasn't shaking anymore.  


	14. Chapter 14

They landed in a vacant lot. Bucky was staring at the onboard computer, scrolling through a series of slightly blurry photos. Brock asked to distract himself from his sense of impending doom, “What are you looking at?” 

“Instagram.” Bucky replied. 

Brock leaned in. The photo was labeled, _Thank God for grey sweatpants._ _#SIN._ It appeared to be a series of cell phone photos snapped from the exact same location each day. “The username is — oh you gotta be kidding me— _Stevewatchers_. Well that’s a little bit creepy.” 

“It is excellent reconnoissance. He runs the same route each day at the same time.” Bucky tapped on the location tag and a map pulled up. That was a frightening amount of information to just be putting out there in public. “Here. We should go here.” 

“I better not have one of these things. Okay. Just let me do all the talking.” Brock said and Bucky nodded. Brock wasn’t convinced by his too easy agreement. “We should do something about the guys in the quinjet.” Brock glanced back at Jack. He’d done his best to prop up Jack’s head and turned him on his side so he didn’t asphyxiate on his own blood or vomit. No multitude of small kindnesses could ever fix what Brock had done to that man. They were forever linked and Brock had the nagging feeling that his life might end by Jack’s hands. He didn’t blame Jack, not one bit. 

“They’ll be fine, they have trackers.” Bucky replied as they left the quinjet. 

“Once Jack rats us out, we’re goners.” 

“You think he will betray you?” Bucky began to hotwire a car. He’d ripped the door handle off like a child tearing open a Christmas gift. 

“He’s hurt, furious at me. And he wants to hurt you. So yeah.” _That’s what I would have done. Vengeance was best served spattered with your enemy’s blood._ “That’s probably what I taught him to do.” 

 

“Target acquired.” They were huddled behind a tree. Well, most of their bodies were hidden, but Brock was pretty sure his jort-covered ass was sticking out. _Just a couple of dudes in the park, hiding behind the shrubbery._

A blur in grey sweatpants whooshed past them. Brock’s jaw dropped open at Steve Rogers’ speed. “There he is. And there he goes.” He threw up his hands. A man was trying his best to keep up with Rogers and getting more exasperated with each lap. “How are we going to catch up to that?” 

“He does 10 laps. We can stop him then.” Bucky’s eyes narrowed and his muscles clenched with anticipation. 

Rogers stopped and helped the winded young man up from the ground. “Looks like he’s got a friend.” They watched the easy banter, the laughing and Bucky’s tension increased. The kid was a coiled spring. “Now. Now’s our chance.” Brock urged. 

Bucky shook his head. “No. He— he needs this. We wait.” Brock blinked. _Are we waiting for Rogers to stop flirting with this jogger? Okay then…_  

A sleek black sports car pulled up to the curb and both men walked over to it. Rogers got inside. Brock panicked and ordered, “We’re going to lose him! Stop that car!” Bucky took out his pistol and fired one shot into the engine block, disabling the vehicle. Brock mashed his stupid hat to his head in exasperation. “I didn’t say _shoot_ the car!”

The jogger took cover behind the car and Brock felt his life pass before his eyes as Steve Rogers and a very pissed off and dangerous looking redheaded woman stalked towards them, her weapons drawn. 

“Oh I’m going to regret this—“ Brock stepped out with his hands high above his head and hollered, “Wait! Wait! Hold up! It’s me, Rumlow! Brock Rumlow!” 

“Friend of yours?” The jogger had followed them. 

The redhead looked him up and down in frank appraisal and her thin lips smirked. “Nice jorts.” _Oh I do not like her. She probably could kill me with pure scorn._

“Look this is going to sound crazy but I really need to talk to your boss because there’s so much shit going down and I cannot trust anyone right now and—“ Rumlow sighed as Bucky stepped out from behind the tree. "And there's _that_." Steve’s mouth fell open as he recognized his long dead best friend. 

After a moment, Bucky said to Brock's horror, “Remember me? I’m not dead.”

“Bucky?” Steve breathed as if not trusting his own eyes.

“Who the hell is Bucky?” The jogger asked and looked at Brock for answers that Brock was not prepared to give. He was possibly never going to be prepared enough to do that. 

“We need a car.” The redhead declared. She was staring at Bucky as if she had seen a ghost. Brock put his hand on Bucky’s shoulder, the kid was shaking. He gave a squeeze of reassurance. The kid was going to be safe. Finally.  _Mission complete. "_ We need a car fast."

The jogger pointed over his shoulder, “I’m parked over there, you’re all going to have to squeeze in though. I’ll move the seats up.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short one tonight but fear not! Conclusion is right around the corner.


	15. Chapter 15

 

The alarm clock went off at 5:30 am just like it always did. Jack mashed his face into his pillow, groggy from sleeping pills. Jack sat up, wiped the corners of his eyes and turned off the alarm. 

A bottle of cheap body wash sat in the shower. Jack leaned over, popped the top and inhaled the spicy musk. Then he replaced the stopper, set it back in place and took his shower. 

He made a pot of coffee, strong and black, knowing that he’d have to pour half of it down the sink. Jack leaned against the kitchen counter and gazed at a mug that was sitting on the tile. The mug had the words ‘Problem Solver’ etched in gold. There was a film of filth on the dried up surface of the old coffee. Jack drank his coffee, rinsed out his own mug and put it away before driving to work.

The Human Resources lady slid an envelope across the desk to him. “My most sincere condolences on your loss.” Jack opened the envelope. It was a check, a life insurance benefit payout made in his name. “You were his sole beneficiary. Again, my most sincere condolences. You have a week of bereavement leave if you need to take it.” Jack shook his head, numb. “Please feel free to use our counseling services.” He had no intention of doing that, but he nodded to make her shut up. 

Every day for eleven months, Jack paused in front of the Wall of Fallen Agents memorial. His eyes slid from the oldest plaque to the newest one. Over and over again. People walked around him as he stared stoically at the memorial. _James Buchanan ‘Bucky’ Barnes. Brock Rumlow._ Someone approached him from the corner of his eye and Jack strode off before the person could offer condolences or attempt to share a memory. 

Jack dutifully took over as STRIKE Commander. He learned how to be back up for the various covert projects that Brock had led. He knew how to launch the INSIGHT helicarriers. He did his job. He did it well. His superiors on both sides complimented him on his professionalism and dedication to their causes. 

They’d found Brock’s body in a clearing next to the quinjet landing. They said that he’d died from a cerebral hemorrhage caused by his head injury. They explained his odd behavior and disappearance by blaming the brain bleed. Agent Romanov, of all people, had identified the body. Brock had been cremated according to his wishes and the urn was interred in the SHIELD plot at Arlington National Cemetery. Alexander Pierce himself had attended the funeral and patted Jack on the shoulder as it rained. Nick Fury stood away from the crowd and nodded at Jack with respect.

They said it had been a quick death. They said Brock wouldn’t have suffered. Jack was in the hospital recovering from his injuries until after the cremation. His nose and the shattered orbit of his eye had had to be reconstructed. They had blamed Brock for that too. The pity Jack got made him feel ill. 

Jack glared at Steve Rogers when he saw the man in the halls. Why was that man so _cheerful_? Jack knew. Jack knew because Widow had stopped trying to set Rogers up with random women. Jack knew because the two of them would giggle to each other when they thought no one else was watching. They had the Asset. _Good riddance._

Jack sat in his chair next to the fireplace and slowly sipped a finger of scotch as he watched the flames. Jack wasn’t grieving. Jack didn’t mourn. Jack didn’t cry a single tear. 

That would have been stupid, because Brock wasn’t dead. He’d faked his death. Jack turned a blank postcard over and over in his fingers. _Greetings from Greenburg, ID._ He didn’t know anyone in that town. But he knew the handwriting on the address. All capital letters, a leftover from a drafting class Brock had taken in high school. Slanted to the side. A perfect match to the old grocery list that still fluttered on the refrigerator door. 

He’d wait until after INSIGHT launched. Everyone would be too distracted by the operation’s aftermath to pay him any heed. He wanted to tell Brock that their plan had succeeded, that everything he’d dedicated his life to had come to fruition. He wanted Brock to be _proud_ of him. He wanted that more than anything else, he craved it like the air he breathed. 

The fire snapped and crackled. Jack flipped the postcard into the flames and watched it burn as he drained his scotch. _I’ll find you_ , he thought. _And we’ll be happy again. And if you still don’t want me, then I’ll fix that too. Permanently. For both of us._

 

The park was idyllic, cool and shaded with squirrels scampering on the trimmed lawn. A man wearing a baseball cap and jorts sat on a park bench. He whipped a peanut at a squirrel, nailed it in the back of the head. The dazed creature took the peanut and shimmied up a tree. The man laughed at the squirrel. It would be back for more. 

Jack took off the safety on his pistol. He stood behind the man on the park bench and placed the muzzle of the gun against the nape of the man’s neck. Jack put his gnarled hand on the man’s shoulder. 

“I knew you’d find me.” Brock Rumlow said. He slid his own fingers over the scarred lumps on Jack’s. “They said you died in the Triskelion, but I knew that was a lie.” Jack swallowed hard, the scar tissue was sensitive and old emotions that he thought had been burnt away by INSIGHT’s flames swelled up within him.

“You betrayed us.” Jack accused and Brock sighed. 

“I didn’t remember a single thing about INSIGHT until I saw the helicarriers launch on the news. Remember how they let us pick out people to be on the list, just for being good soldiers? Well I guess my fifth grade math teacher and that shitty brother-in-law of yours got to breath easy another day. You launched the carriers, didn’t you? You took my place.” 

Jack grunted affirmatively, words seemed to stick in his throat. Brock was stroking the inside of his palm now with his thumb, slow and firm. Soothing. “I don’t think I could have done it. I knew you would.” The pride in Brock’s voice was heady, but Jack didn’t trust it. “I bet you’re wondering if I’ve recovered my memories.” 

“You betrayed _me._ ” Jack said and pressed the gun harder against Brock’s neck. “I didn’t tell them anything. I kept your secrets. Your shameful weak secrets. You chose that science fair project over me! You called me a _monster. And—you left me alone!_ ” 

Brock took off his hat, his ridiculous fluffy hair caught the breeze and Jack wanted to wrap his fist in the silky strands. He cursed himself for his weakness. 

Brock leaned his head to the side, rested his cheek on Jack’s hand. When he spoke, it was soft as if revealing secrets no one else knew. “When you were twelve, you had a puppy. Little white dog. You named it Popcorn. Your mother dumped it at a truck stop when it pissed on her rug.When your mother died last year, you tossed the puppy’s tiny collar in on top of her casket.” Jack’s gun hand began to tremble. 

“You like to mix your potatoes, gravy and stuffing all together on the plate at Thanksgiving and it’s completely disgusting. Once you let me paint your toenails when we were really, really drunk. You can’t fit all the way in the hammock in our backyard, but that never stops you. There were arms and legs hanging out all over the place and you never noticed when I came out on the porch and watched you. Watched the shadows dapple your face.” Brock interlaced their fingers. “When you told me that you loved me, I told you that you were my ‘greatest achievement’. Because I was a prick who couldn’t express a feeling if my life depended on it. Times have changed.” 

Hot tears streamed down Jack’s cheeks. “Are you, _you_?” _Are you the same man I loved?_ “Why did you send me that postcard?” 

“I’ve done horrible things to you. I coerced you, I seduced you and I corrupted you. I was so blinded by the guilt and shame of what I’d done that I didn’t want to think about you. It was easier to think about righting the wrongs done to the kid, to the Asset. Because I could hand him off, he’s no longer my problem.” Brock turned his head to look up at Jack, hazel green hooded eyes. “You’re my responsibility. And I wanted to give you an out. A way to escape.” 

_Those eyes_. Those eyes were the reason Jack had approached from behind. Brock took in all the new scars from the Triskelion, all the burns and gnarled flesh. Brock smiled at him, easy and calm. That was all it took. jack clicked the safety back on and holstered his weapon. Jack sat by his old lover on the park bench. 

“Fury’s not dead. But I don’t think he gives a shit about where I’m hiding out anymore.” Brock offered him a handful of peanuts. “I’m remembering all sorts of things now.” 

“Oh yeah?” Jack tossed at peanut at a blue jay, it nimbly caught it in midair. 

“I remember that you like pumpkin spice creamer in your coffee in the fall and that you almost decked me when I called you a _basic bitch._ I remember when you caught me trying to put the moves on Rogers in the locker room. What a fucking train wreck that was, I’m sorry about that. I was under orders to try. I remember when all that money went missing after we took down that warlord. There was so much paperwork.” Brock smirked. “There’s a storage unit in Midtown. The combination is your birthday. And we’ll never have to worry about money again.” 

“You’re not interested in revenge? Rogers just vanished into thin air with the Asset. But I bet we could find him.” The idea was ashen in his mouth, but if that’s what Brock wanted… 

“I find the best revenge is outliving your enemies in style. I don’t want to see anymore blood, Jack. I’m tired.” Brock rubbed his stubbled chin. 

The laughter of children bubbled up from behind the trees. Jack flaked the shell from a peanut. “A fresh start, huh?” 

“A new path. Do you like the ocean or the mountains?” Brock put his hat back on. _World’s Best Daddy._ Jack raised an eyebrow at it. “Oh screw you. I’m sentimental.” 

“You don’t care about me the same way I care about you.” Jack crumbled the peanut. “I don’t think I can live with that.”

Brock leaned forward on his arms, he sighed. “Jack. I wasn’t capable of loving anyone. There was something broken, something burnt out like a fuse in my head. All the shit I tossed at you, well that was just me lashing out because it was easier than dealing with my own issues. I was scared. And ashamed. And kinda sickened by who I was. I’m so grateful that there were no seatbelts in that transport because now— now I feel like a whole person. And you’re under no obligation to help me figure my shit out, but if you— if you want to, I’d like to get to know you again.” A smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Want to get a cup of coffee? They just released the pumpkin spice flavor.”

Jack wiped at his face with the back of his hand. “You call me a basic bitch and I’ll knock you on your ass.”

“I won’t call you names Jack. You don’t do that on a first date.” Brock grinned. “Maybe the third date.” He offered his hand and Jack paused before he took it. “What is it?” 

Jack shook his head. “People like us don’t get happy endings.”

“Well technically we’re _dead_. So we get a do over.” Brock pulled Jack up from the bench. “You’re welcome to stay with me or to go on your own path. It’s your choice. It’s up to you.” 

“Someone has to keep you out of trouble.” Jack grinned, lightness in his heart for the first time in months. He tilted his head to indicate Brock’s wardrobe. “And give you a makeover because _oh my god_ , no.”

THE END 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Your comments and enthusiasm were encouraging and got me through some very rough weeks. Thank you again. 
> 
> Friends don't let friends wear jorts.


End file.
